


Dog Days

by menel



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, Fuckbuddies, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Post-Canon, Shower Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-24
Updated: 2020-01-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:42:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22389634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/menel/pseuds/menel
Summary: It's the dog days of summer and Matt needs a little distraction.Written for the 2020 Fratt Week Day 5 prompt, 'dog.'
Relationships: Frank Castle/Matt Murdock
Comments: 35
Kudos: 284
Collections: Fratt Week





	Dog Days

“It’s too hot.”

Matt felt that statement in his bones, in every open pore slick with sweat that soaked his shirt and pants. He’d discarded his jacket hours ago, undone the top button of his shirt and loosened his tie. Sometime before lunch, he’d gotten rid of the tie as well.

He was sweltering, his heightened senses magnifying the room’s temperature, humidity, and moisture. Every fan they had at the office was on its highest setting, but it did nothing to alleviate the heat, simply driving the stale, humid air around the room (which was slightly better than having the stale, humid air _hanging_ in the room like a physical force). Circulation or not, the heat was oppressive to Matt, but he didn’t complain. That wasn’t in his nature. Foggy, on the other hand . . . 

“Matt, I’m serious. I can’t work like this. I feel like my brain’s about to combust!”

The good thing about Foggy’s complaining was how endearing and entertaining it was. Foggy’s observations were nuanced and pointed. He had the sort of sharp, observational humor that Jerry Seinfeld had turned into a cultural phenomenon back in the 90s. 

“I bet you miss your corner office and air-conditioning now.”

Karen strode into their little conference room, the smells of the butcher shop that she’d passed through to get to their offices on the second-floor clinging to her clothes. They all smelled that way, layered with a cologne of raw meat and poultry. Matt told himself that he’d been surrounded by worse. Sewers. Chemotherapy at hospitals. What was a little raw beef and chicken?

“I can live without my corner office,” Foggy answered. “But I would kill . . . _kill_ . . . for air-conditioning right now.” 

Karen laughed, but Matt could only muster a smile. Karen, ever observant, said to him, “Are you okay?” Her voice was laced with concern. 

“Foggy’s right,” Matt said, trying to wave her concern away. “The heat’s getting to me as well.”

Matt detected the quick tension that shot through his best friend’s body, as though Foggy had just realized that whatever he was feeling, Matt must’ve been feeling as well, only magnified a hundred times over. 

“Let’s call it a day,” Foggy suddenly said. “There’s nothing urgent left that needs to be done, right?” He stood up. “And we’re all set for tomorrow? Or, better yet . . .” Foggy’s voice rose slightly with his anticipation. “We can finish up somewhere more relaxing. Like a bar?”

Matt did laugh at that suggestion. “I don’t know how much work we’d get done in a bar,” he pointed out. 

“Forget the work then,” Foggy replied. “Let’s just go get a drink. Several drinks. We’ll feel better.” 

“Diving into a pool would make me feel better,” Karen suggested. 

“We can do that, too,” Foggy powered on. “We can find a bar with a pool. Problem solved.” 

“I’m not so sure about the bar and the pool,” Karen admitted, but she too was fixing her things. “But I’m fine with calling it a day.” 

They both looked to Matt. 

Matt held up his hands. “No objections here,” he agreed.

“Fantastic,” Foggy said with enthusiasm. “I’ll call Marci. There’s a bar we both love a few blocks from here. Maybe she can meet us there.” 

“The watering hole for high-powered attorneys?” Karen teased him. 

“Hey, hey. Don’t knock my former life,” Foggy bantered back. “Some of my clients left Jeri Hogarth to join our little firm. Those _paying_ clients keep the lights on in this place.” 

“We appreciate your paying clients, Foggy,” Matt assured him. He was slower to move. Everything felt sluggish. 

“Matt,” Karen said. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’ve been better,” Matt admitted. “But it’s nothing a little rest won’t take care of.” 

“And air-conditioning,” Foggy added. 

“And air-conditioning,” Matt agreed. He gave his friends a rueful smile. “I’ll have to raincheck the bar and the pool,” he told them.

“Matt,” Foggy immediately protested, but stopped just as abruptly. It was a sure sign that Matt was probably looking as poorly as he felt. “Okay, but maybe you want to . . . stay off the streets tonight? The weather reports say this heatwave’s only going to get worse before it gets better.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Matt said, not quite promising to stay off the streets. He took Foggy’s words to heart, though. The heat of the day would soak into the asphalt of the streets and the buildings, turning the city into a veritable sauna for him. Going out tonight would not be . . . pleasant. 

“You’ll be okay?” Karen asked, one more time. 

“Karen,” Matt said, squeezing her arm to reassure her. “I’ll be fine. Go find a swimming pool.”

* * *

“It’s too hot.” 

Matt echoed Foggy’s words as he flopped back down on the bed. Frank had chosen a nicer hotel for this meeting, a much nicer hotel, one that had a fully functioning air-conditioner that was humming quietly. Even with the functioning air-conditioner, it was still _too hot_.

Frank flopped onto the bed next to him, his right hand running down Matt’s inner thigh. Matt didn’t mind the gesture. The heat also had the effect of magnifying Frank’s scent, which in turn made Matt extra horny. But god, if they had sex, the whole room would reek and Matt wasn’t sure he could take that. He wouldn’t be able to decide if he would be hornier or if he would be grossed out by their mingled scents. 

Of course, having sex with Frank during the city’s heatwave wouldn’t be such a dilemma if, y’know, he hadn’t started having sex with Frank in the first place.

These ‘meetings’ had started two months ago. The first time had been pure adrenaline and bad decision-making (no decision-making?), a rushed handjob in a back alley two blocks away from where they’d run into each other at the same heroin bust. What had happened at the heroin bust could hardly be called teamwork, but they’d gotten the job done. Matt had been furious, unable to back down from Frank’s usual goading and taunting. The verbal fight had turned into a physical one, which had turned into a messy and rushed handjob, Frank fisting both of them in his large hand as Matt gripped his shoulders and canted his hips into Frank’s quick rhythm. Afterward, both of them had been too shocked to say anything. Frank had recovered first, cleaning them both up and tucking them in. Matt heard the smirk in the other man’s voice when he said, “See you around, Red.”

The following week, Matt received an anonymous message on his phone, providing a meeting place and time, in some dingy hotel. Matt had been wary, but he’d gone to the hotel prepared. He was prepared for the ambush when he entered the room, the flurry of fists and kicks that made hand-to-hand combat with Frank Castle so satisfying. What he hadn’t been prepared for was the bruising kiss, a mash of teeth and lips that was every bit as violent as the man himself. Violence and Frank Castle went hand-in-hand, and Matt had learned to respond to violence with violence. His own kiss was more like a bite as he slammed Frank back into the wall, his knee purposely digging into Frank’s groin. That earned him a half-growl, half-groan from the other man, and then clothes were being shed.

If Matt had known that Frank’s goal for the night had been to fuck, he wouldn’t have bothered with the red suit, but there was also something reassuring and familiar about wearing it. The suit reminded him of who he was when he was with Frank Castle, the complicated mental gymnastics that he did to keep the lives of Daredevil and Matt Murdock separate. He didn’t make that kind of distinction for Frank. To him, Frank Castle and the Punisher were one and the same. When Castle had begun his quest for vengeance, he hadn’t tried to hide his identity. He _wanted_ people to know who he was; he wanted those bastards to know that he was coming for them. The moniker of The Punisher had been given to him by the cops and the local media. Frank wouldn’t have chosen a name like that for himself. Daredevil was a name that had been bestowed on Matt as well, but the crucial difference was that his personal identity remained private. 

Yeah, Matt was really good at rationalizing.

The third time it happened, Frank had texted him from the same number as before, which had surprised Matt. He’d assumed that Frank would use a burner phone, not his _actual_ number. (Matt had stored Frank’s number in his contact list as ‘Booty Call.’) Different hotel, different time. 

And so it went.

These meetings (because Matt was hard pressed to call them ‘trysts’) always took place in a different hotel and late at night or early morning. Frank arranged each one, and Matt turned up every time. It was straight to business, no pillow talk afterwards. Sometimes one or both of them would doze before leaving. Twice Frank had brought coffee in a thermos and they’d shared a cup before heading their separate ways. Matt liked their arrangement. It was easy. Uncomplicated. Included great sex. It had improved their ‘working’ relationship as well. Matt was less likely to want to beat Frank to a pulp when they ran into each other on the streets, and Frank wasn’t so hostile or combative. Even his goading had changed into something more playful, more teasing. It would qualify as flirting in their strange vocabulary. 

But today was different.

Today was the first time Matt had texted Frank. He’d sent a simple message: “Free?” 

Frank had replied with a hotel name, a room number and a, “See you in 30.”

That was another first. They were meeting, and there was still _daylight_. Matt had gone straight to the hotel from the office. He was wearing _office_ clothes. He’d entered through the hotel’s main door instead of slipping in through a strategically open window. He’d been greeted by the familiar scent of gun oil, though it was the first time it had been so strong for one of their ‘meetings.’ That’s because Frank had been sitting in one of the room’s armchairs, cleaning a shotgun. (Because Frank Castle was the sort of man who carried a shotgun with him at all times.)

“A little early, Red?” Frank had said, not even looking up. 

“Didn’t expect an instant reply, Frank.” 

Castle had finally glanced in his direction. “Slow day,” he’d said. 

“Very slow,” Matt had agreed. “And very hot,” he added, turning to face the cool air coming from the air-con. 

Frank had stood up then, leaving the shotgun leaning against the side of the armchair. He’d crossed the room to where Matt was standing, gripped Matt’s face in both his hands and kissed him.

The kiss had caught Matt by surprise. Not the kiss, per se (they always kissed), nor the way Frank held his head (Matt was used to Frank holding him down. He _liked_ it). But something was . . . different. Mildly irritated that he couldn’t place what that difference was, Matt had pushed Frank towards the bed and begun stripping him. Frank helped. It was only when Matt had been straddling Frank and they were both down to their underwear (Frank in boxers, Matt in briefs) that he’d felt a sudden rush of nausea and proclaimed: 

“It’s too hot.” 

Now they were lying side by side, Frank’s hand still running up and down Matt’s thigh. The action was driving Matt to distraction. 

“Heat’s hell on your senses, huh?” Frank said into the quiet of the room.

Matt blew out a breath, shaking his head. “We can’t do this in here,” he said. “The whole room would smell of us and that –” He broke off, unsure of what he wanted to say. _And that would drive me crazy? Gross me out? Get me even hornier?_ Whichever way he chose to end the sentence, it didn’t sound good. 

Frank’s hand stilled. “Shower?” he suggested. 

Matt wanted to laugh. Frank Castle had single-minded focus, which apparently extended to sex. “Shower,” he agreed, rolling out of bed.

Matt was usually finicky when it came to showers, mixing the temperature of the water just right. Today, he only bothered with the cold water, placing the setting on maximum and blasting the water out of the showerhead. Even then, the water that came out qualified more as lukewarm, but it was better than nothing. It washed the coat of sweat off of his body; it sluiced down his back in rivulets. He felt Frank step into the shower behind him, the other man’s solid bulk emanating heat that wasn’t unwelcome. Matt braced himself against the tiles, spreading his legs at the same time. Fingers entered him, stretching and scissoring. It burned a little, but those fingers would be nothing compared to Frank’s girth. Matt pushed back against them, anticipating Frank’s cock. He soon got what he wanted. Frank pressed in, his left arm wrapped around Matt’s waist, their lower bodies flushed together as Frank guided himself inside. This burn was exquisite. Frank always went in slow. Even when they were frantic and desperate, Frank always took this part slow. The first stretch, the first thrust, the first moment when their bodies were joined. It was the best part. Matt savored it. And Frank always paused. Stilled. Waited until Matt was comfortable and ready. Then Matt would give a slight nod, and Frank would plant a kiss at the base of Matt’s neck, or his shoulder, or the hollow at his throat – never on the lips – to let Matt know he would move.

What happened after that was Frank’s call, or at least, that’s what Matt used to believe. Now he knew better. Just like the care Frank took when he entered Matt, the _kind_ of sex they had was catered to Matt’s moods. Hard and fast. Slow and smooth. Tied up. Held down. Playful. Teasing. Frank never asked, but he always got it right. And when Matt realized this, he was amazed (and a little disconcerted) by how well Frank could read him. _Had it always been this way?_ Matt began to wonder. Had he always been an open book to Frank Castle?

Today’s heatwave made Matt slow and sluggish. Touch, and especially smell, had been magnified to the nth degree. Smell was what kept making Matt nauseous. Again, Frank seemed to sense this. Although he kept his left arm wrapped about Matt’s waist, he kept some distance between them, allowing the water to cool Matt’s overheated senses. He fucked into Matt, slow and deliberate. It was good, good enough to make Matt’s toes curl from the pleasure. But the languid pace wasn’t enough. It kept the pleasure in Matt’s body warm and sustained, but it wasn’t enough to make him come. 

“Frank,” he gasped. “I need –” 

“I _know_ what you need.”

Frank pulled Matt back against him then, so that their bodies aligned perfectly. Heat seared into Matt’s back as Frank began to fuck into him in earnest. Matt was about to grip his cock and stroke it to match Frank’s rhythm, but Frank seemed to anticipate this too. With his lips against Matt’s right ear, he said in a gravelly voice: 

“Keep your hands on the tile. I’ve got you.”

Matt let out a sound of frustration, but did as he was told. Frank’s free hand snaked up his chest, strong fingers curling about his neck. Matt groaned at the pressure. Frank _always_ applied just the right amount of pressure, and Matt knew with sudden clarity that he would come on Frank’s cock alone. Frank maintained his rhythm, his grip around Matt’s waist almost bruising, but the pressure on Matt’s neck not strong enough to leave marks. Matt came without warning, his body seizing. The grip on his neck instantly loosened, but Frank continued to fuck him through his orgasm. 

It was Frank’s grip on his waist that kept Matt upright. His knees were so weak that he would’ve sunk onto the shower tile without support. As it was, Matt managed to keep one hand braced on the wall as he reached back with the other to urge Frank to finish. Frank did, biting down on Matt’s shoulder as he spilled into him.

Matt rested his forehead against the tile, the water washing over their heated bodies. He could feel Frank’s tongue laving the bite mark that he’d left on Matt shoulder. Their bodies were still joined. He wasn’t surprised when the hand on his neck tilted his head towards Frank. He’d been expecting it. The post-coital kiss had become a ritual between them. _Frank_ had made it into a ritual. That kiss was always slow. Sensual. Probing. Matt often thought that Frank was trying to speak to him through that kiss, to say things that he’d otherwise be unable to say. Like right now, Frank’s kiss was asking, _Better, yes? You’re okay? Not too rough?_ And Matt was saying, _I’m good. Real good. It was just right._

Matt licked his lips when Frank eventually stepped away.

“You seem tired, Red.” 

Matt chuckled, managing to turn himself around to face the other man. “Well, Frank,” he said, the water hitting the tile a continuous droning to Matt’s hearing. “Since you just fucked my brains out, I’m going to need a little time to recover.” 

“Take whatever time you need.”

Frank stepped out of the shower. Matt heard him pull a towel from the rack, drying himself briskly as he left the bathroom. Matt, on the other hand, wasn’t so quick to relinquish the now-cooler water. It was a terrible waste, but he thought he could indulge for a few extra minutes. Frank had left the bathroom door open, making it even easier for Matt to track the other man as he moved about the bedroom. He was surprised when Frank picked up the phone and ordered room service. (For once, they were meeting in a hotel that was swanky enough to have _room service_.)

Twenty minutes later, room service arrived just as Matt was putting on one of the hotel’s terry towel bathrobes. The material was softer than he expected and the floral-scented detergent not too cloying. It was better than wearing his own salt-encrusted clothes. He dreaded putting those back on. 

When Matt exited the bathroom, Frank was opening the domed covers of their plates. Although they weren’t at a diner (and Matt could count on one hand the number of times he and Frank had shared a meal at a diner), Frank had basically ordered diner food – upscale burgers and fries. Matt thought the smell of the meat might make him nauseous again, but at least a burger was cooked meat. That . . . and he was actually hungry. 

“What’s this?” he asked, sitting down at the little table Frank had prepared. (Frank was wearing the other terry towel bathrobe. If anyone walked in on them now, Matt knew exactly what that person would think.) 

“You’re the hotshot attorney,” Frank retorted. “What does it look like?”

“Putting aside for the moment that I can’t _see_ . . .” Matt began, but he was smirking. “I’d say this looks like dinner.” 

“And you’d be right.”

Matt’s expression softened. They’d reached some kind of turning point without Matt even realizing it. When he’d excused himself from drinks with Karen and Foggy earlier that day, he’d been planning to go home and rest. His text to Frank had been a spur of the moment thing. Even now, he couldn’t explain _why_ he’d done it when he’d never been the one to instigate these meetings. Just as perplexing had been Frank’s swift reply and his choice of hotel, the shower, and now the room service. Frank was changing the rules without Matt’s permission. And Matt? Well, Matt wasn’t entirely sure that he objected.

They didn’t talk much while they ate, but Frank asked Matt if he could put the TV on. Matt didn’t mind. He noticed how Frank kept the volume lower than usual, but not so low that Frank wouldn’t be able to hear the news. The running news commentary kept them company.

After the meal, Matt’s senses led him back to the bed. Crawling into bed immediately after eating was a _terrible_ idea, but Matt had been full of terrible ideas of late. 

“I’m going to nap for a bit,” Matt told Frank. “Before I head out.”

He partially pulled down the bedcover of the king-sized bed before lying down on his side facing the center of the bed. The sheets were cool against his skin. He felt the bed dip as Frank settled on the other side, legs stretched out in front of him. Frank hadn’t bothered to pull down his half of the bedcover. He had the TV’s remote control in his left hand, the volume now muted as he channel-surfed. It didn’t matter. Matt could still hear the faintest burst of static each time the channel changed. 

Before Matt completely dozed off, Frank said, “You don’t gotta head out. Room’s paid for ‘til tomorrow.” 

_That’s right_ , Matt dimly thought. Frank had chosen a nice hotel, not one of their usual places that had hourly rates. 

“Well,” Matt said. “You don’t have to stay, if you’ve got other things to do, someplace else you need to be.” 

Frank shook his head. “Got nowhere else to be, Red.”

Through his fatigue and drowsiness, Matt understood what Frank wasn’t saying. It was like Frank’s kiss. Frank was telling Matt that he _wanted_ to stay. And as Matt reached out, his fingers curling about Frank’s wrist, he was saying in turn, _I’m glad. I_ want _you to stay_. 

**Fin.**

**Author's Note:**

> Everything belongs of Marvel and Netflix. No infringement is intended; no profit is being made.


End file.
